Chapter 7

IQANDA LE GROOTMAN
CHAPTER 7

ZOBUHLE ZWIDE

The taxi rank was alive with chaos — hooting taxis, impatient drivers shouting destinations, vendors calling out for amagwinya and kota, and the thick smell of fried food mixing with exhaust fumes. But inside me? Silence. Only Mama's words kept replaying in my head like a curse.

Amalobolo negotiations are on Monday… whether you like it or not.

Ngathi ngiyahlanya. My chest was tight, my eyes sore from holding back tears. I wasn't walking — I was running from home, from Sihle, from everything.

"Zo."

The voice was deep, smooth, commanding.

I froze mid-step. My heart stuttered before I even turned my head.

And there he was. Manqoba.

He leaned casually against his sleek Dior, hands in his pockets, his eyes locked on me like he'd been waiting all along. Even in the chaos of the taxi rank, he looked untouchable, calm, almost too polished for this dusty place. The kind of man who didn't belong here — but owned every space he stepped into.

"Why is it," he smirked, tilting his head, "that I always find you when you're running from something?"

I rolled my eyes, masking the shiver in my spine. "Or maybe you're just stalking me."

He chuckled, the sound deep, low, and far too confident. "If I was stalking you, would you be this quick to talk back?"

I wanted to brush past him, but something in his presence… held me. Like gravity. As much as I hated to admit it, standing there in front of him felt safer than being at home, safer than Sihle's lies, safer than Mama's coldness.

"What do you want, Manqoba?" I asked, sharper than I meant.

His expression softened, but only slightly. "I want to know why a beautiful girl like you is walking around with tears in her eyes."

I quickly wiped my face, embarrassed. "It's none of your business."

He stepped closer, his cologne wrapping around me, his voice dropping lower. "Maybe it's not… but I want it to be."

My chest tightened. He was dangerous — not in the way Sihle was careless and and cruel, but in the way he looked at me, like he already owned a piece of me I didn't remember giving.

He moved to the passenger side of the car, opening the door slowly, deliberately. "Come. Let me drive you. You look tired"

I hesitated, shifting my weight, trying to convince myself to say no. Every warning in my head screamed at me: This man is trouble. But my body? My body was betraying me. My feet inched closer, my heart hammering.

"Zo," he said again, softer this time, almost like a plea.

I found myself sliding into the leather seat before I even realized what I was doing. The car door shut with a quiet finality that made me feel trapped — but not unwillingly.

As he started the engine, I noticed the small box he had given me yesterday still sitting in the cupholder. My fingers twitched toward it, curious.

He caught me looking and smirked. "You still haven't opened it?"

I swallowed. "Should I?"

His eyes flickered from the road to me, holding my gaze for a second too long. "Open it when you're ready to think about me… seriously."

I bit my lip, nerves sparking through me.

"Manqoba," I whispered, "why me? Out of all the women, why do you keep chasing me?"

He turned the steering wheel smoothly, his jaw tightening just enough to make him look dangerous again.

"Because, Zobuhle," he said, his tone low and deliberate, "I don't chase women. I choose them. And once I choose… I don't let go."

The words settled in my stomach like fire, equal parts fear and excitement. I stared out the window, trying to calm the storm inside me, clutching that box tighter.

I didn't know if I was running away from danger anymore… or running straight into it.